the city community radio
"YOU DIED WHEN you were born," the customer says the moment it's their turn in line.
Priam blinks, momentarily confused at the sudden declaration, but not surprised. "I'm not giving out free samples."
The customer ignores this and continues, the sides of their mouth stretching into something feral. "Have you no curiosity over who you were before The Pit?"
Right. Okay, the fuck. He really has no time for shit like this. "That's not within my pay-grade right now, dear customer."
"Aren't you curious of those you left behind?" pushes the customer.
Irritation flashed in Priam's eyes as he slams a hand on the marble counter and snaps, "Please just give me your fucking order, you goddamn cryptic-ass wannabe."
The customer pauses, clearly hurt, then says, "...I'll have a Set B student meal."
From the kitchen, Arle hollers. "Set B comin' right up!"
Priam gives the customer a waiting tag. It's a talisman that says "fuck off". The customer stalks away with it dejectedly.
Good. That'll keep 'em from stalling the line.
"Next customer please!" he calls out, then hundreds of flies suddenly rush in from the vents and coalesced into a vague shape of a person in front of the counter. He scrunches his nose at the figure, swatting off the flies that buzz nearby his face. "Dear Gehenna. Old Nick, please use your mortal form when coming inside my establishment. The other customers do not appreciate it when flies are in close proximity of their food."
The five customers dining in, who were used to the daily oddities of the cafè, sighs and activates the shield barriers on their individual tables by scritching the words protect our sustenance on a table napkin and then stuffing it in their mouths and swallowing it, as per instructed on the obligatory list of guidelines entitled Ways To Protect Your Food From Outside Sources, Such As Men Made of Flies, Bees, Ants and Many More that the local food authority made mandatory for every establishment serving food.
The customers continued eating, unaffected by the flies that cannot get near their food.
The flies buzzed a noise of offense at this but shifted closer as the black of their bodies morph to flesh and bone and finally, a tall man in a black shirt and khaki pants now stood in front of him. The man blearily blinks his eyes of emptiness and void, as if testing his sight.
"I fucking hate this body," the man decides, testing the functionality of his arms through stretching. Judging by the simultaneous cracks on both limbs, he clearly hasn't grown the bone properly.
"You and me both," Priam says in agreement.
Old Nick narrows his eyes at him, now amused. "You're too young to hate yourself."
"Bold of you to assume I even liked myself from the start," Priam fires without hesitation. His therapist would've disapproved of such a statement, but hey, what Dr. Baccara doesn't know won't hurt them so there's no harm done.
The man barks out a laugh. "Humor said you were funny. Didn't believe him."
"Yes, whatever. Your order, Old Nick?"
As if on practice, Old Nick says, "The souls of the damned." Then he chuckles as Priam throws him a glare that indicated how much the younger man wasn't in the mood for fooling around. So he hastily corrects, "A smoothie."
YOU ARE READING
Priam and His Customers
HumorPriam owns a book cafè and his customers aren't really the usual ones you'd expect. Sometimes there's bloodshed, sometimes there's a rift in space and time, sometimes he can't understand the orders spoken in ancient tongue. But he always, always se...
